, if not
already dead, and to report that he could not be saved. He was in the
middle of the desert, under the shadow of night, where no eye could see,
and no hand could hinder; why then should he not make his secret secure
against every contingency of the future?

All the ferocious instincts of the villain were re-awakened;
mechanically he drew the long knife from his boot, and held its point
over the heart of the unconscious Tiburcio.

At that moment, a slight quivering of the limbs told that the latter
still lived. The outlaw raised his arm, but still hesitated to strike
the blow.

"It was just thus," reflected he, "that I stabbed the man he called his
father--just in the same way, as he slept beside me, in full confidence
of security. I see him now contesting with me for the life of this
young fellow more than half gone. I feel at this moment the weight of
his body upon my shoulders, just as I felt it when I carried him down to
the river."

And the murderer, at these thoughts, in the middle of the darkness and
solitude, cast around him a look that betrayed the terror with which the
souvenir still inspired him.

That terror saved the life of Tiburcio; for the knife was thrust back
into its singular scabbard, and the villain, seating himself beside the
recumbent form, thrust his hand under the vest of the young man, and
held it over his heart to try whether it was still beating.

In this attitude he remained for a short while--until satisfied that
Tiburcio was yet alive. Then a bright thought seemed to startle him;
for a voice had spoken to him from within, stronger than the voice of
conscience. It was that of personal interest. Cuchillo knew the rare
qualities of Tiburcio--his talents as a _rastreador_, or tracker--his
daring prowess in Indian warfare; and after some consideration, he
resolved to enrol him in the expedition of Don Estevan, to which he
would no doubt prove of great value.

"That will be the best plan," said the outlaw, speaking in soliloquy.
"What would his life be worth to me now?--Nothing; and if I wish to have
it hereafter--why, then there will be no lack of opportunities. He
cannot be otherwise than grateful for what I am going to do for him.
But let me see how matters stand--of course it is thirst that is killing
him--how lucky I have kept a little water in my canteen!"

He now opened the mouth of the dying man, and holding the neck of the
leathern bottle to his lips, poured som